And I'm Never Going Back to My Old School

I sit at my computer and think about my approach. Maybe a Facebook post a la the First Bra Debacle.

No, maybe not. I don't need to be hissed at during Mass by the blindly loyal faithful of the parish. They are like lobbyists. I'd be asked to worship outside a 10 mile radius of holiness.

I remember vividly my descent into a pit of turmoil with the parish school. It was when my son entered Kindergarten.

This maiden voyage ended much like the Titanic's.

Full day Kindergarten, BTW, involved a half day of academics and a half day of coloring. With a coloring book and crayons that I had to provide. (Since the "good" moms were obviously home coloring all afternoon in their sweatpants with their kids) Double the tuition of the half day Kindergarten. Where I come from this is called "babysitting."

Now fewer than 27 students hoping to have their basic needs met by a teacher and an aide. (By comparison, when he eventually went over the wall to find asylum in the public school, he was the 17th student to enter the class - having lots of additional needs met by a teacher and an aide. You do the math.)

Nasty notes from the frustrated parish school teacher about such things as how to properly form a lower case "g."

What?

Bite marks and brush burns and facial bruises the origins of which the teacher could not begin to explain. (I am still unclear about whether she ever entered the classroom.)

Meetings with Sr. Mary Mental Case where she insisted my son was lying about things like being pushed down the steps to the "pit" (translation: playground) in spite of bruising and a convincing demonstration and my son picking the culprit out of a lineup (and, incidentally, fingering him as the kid who also bit him on the torso and left marks still visible a week later) because his injuries were not serious enough.

Incidents that warranted a phone call that never came. Incidents of such minor import that a note would have sufficed where they insisted upon a meeting. Consent forms that were not honored. It was like the Elmer Fudd School of Readin' Ritin' and 'Rithmetic.

By Halloween I had grave doubts. By Thanksgiving I was in a panic. By Christmas he was enrolled at the local public school where a former favorite teacher of mine had become principal and could offer me assurances that the hare-brained stories I'd tearfully related could quite effortlessly be avoided, and that I would not have any further Stepford Wives experiences with administrators.

I had to fight for the return of a portion of my tuition. They kept the crayons and coloring book.

I wrote a scathing letter to the Home and School Association highlighting the myriad demonstrations of ineptness I'd experienced at Our Lady of Condemnation hoping to save other children and parents from disasters that would surely come to pass.

I got a nice note from the parish priest asking me to see him after Mass.

Uh-oh.